


Devlin Potter: Riddle and Rescue

by GingeredTea



Series: Devlin Potter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:56:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11893368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingeredTea/pseuds/GingeredTea
Summary: Both Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter live on, and the second wizarding war continues to rage. But when the Dark Lord kidnaps Harry's son, he discovers a boy who looks far less a Potter than a Riddle, raising questions about the parentage of the supposed Muggleborn girl Harry married. Four years later, Harry is reunited with the son he thought was dead and must face the fact that his boy is no longer the Devlin Potter he was born to be.





	1. The Picture of a Boy

So, here we go:

_The end is like the beginning – uncertain._

**Prologue: The Picture of a Boy**

****

****

Devlin Potter felt remarkably _empty_ as the cool air hit his face.

At that moment, he didn’t care that he was being dragged across the ground by the arm that he had moments ago been unable to move, or that there were more of those masked men here. It felt good to _see._ It felt good to breathe in air that didn’t smell of blood and sweat and _fear_. 

The man dragging him no longer wore his mask, his blond hair glittering under the starry night. He dragged him into a large tent filled with more masked men, all standing quietly by the edges, looking at one man seated in the center. 

“Here is the boy, my Lord,” the blond man said, his fingers still digging into the back of Devlin’s neck, forcing him to look at the ground. Devlin was half aware that he would have collapsed if the man let go.

“This is Potter’s boy?” Devlin squeezed his eyes closed against the nausea. The blond man hadn’t liked it when he had thrown up on his shoes and if the blonde man was afraid of this man  (‘ _you want to cry now - you just wait until you meet the Dark Lord’)_...Devlin swallowed again, fighting the bile back down. It seared at his raw throat. 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

“Well, let go of him, Draco,” the man said, a kind of curiosity and dismissiveness all at once that sent a shiver up Devlin’s spine. 

The blond man threw him down and Devlin crashed to his knees onto the stone floor with an unpleasant sound. Even on his knees with his eyes closed, he felt his world sway. The cold floor sent a chill up his entire body and the last-minute healing prickled unpleasantly on his skin, hiding the bruises that he still felt deep in his bones. 

 

He flexed the muscles in his neck slightly, feeling the bruise from the man’s grasp but also feeling his freedom from the constraint. It felt as if it had been forever since he had been able to move his body anyway he pleased. He twisted his neck a bit, still keeping the floor in view.

 

Instinct told him to keep his head bowed, but something else urged him to look up and see the danger. _His father would want to see the danger_...so Devlin raised his eyes to those he felt boring most into him. They were red, darker than a flame, colder then the blood that had moments ago been dripping down the side of his face.

 

"Do you know where you are?" The red-eyed man's voice was clipped and slightly uninterested; he twirled his wand gracefully across his fingertips, inviting the concern of when, and to whom, it might strike. Devlin realized that he had been right to defy instinct; this man was disgusted by weakness. Devlin's internal instincts, driven by the amber eyes that lurk behind his green, shift to accommodate this realization. 

 

"The center of your plots?" His father had often spoken about this man's plots and how he always found himself at the center of them. 

 

"One could say that," he said, the tip of his lip twitching into a feature that followed all the right movements of a 'smile' but resembled no smile Devlin had ever seen. He continued to twirl the wand, the movement now more absent than purposeful. "Do you know my name?' 

 

Devlin did not know much about this man; his father did not like Devlin listening to 'grown up' conversations and it was always a grown up conversation when this man was brought up. Still, Devlin could not suppress a feeling of triumph, because his father had always made it a point that Devlin knew this man's _real name_. Maybe it was the answer he wanted but did not expect Devlin to know. He stood up even though his legs begged him to stay down.

 

When the blond man had looked at him for the first time properly he had called Devlin ‘worthless’. Devlin had been on the floor screaming, at the time. He hadn’t known the word, but he knew what ‘worth’ and ‘less’ meant, and he had sensed that when the man had put them both together he had meant something about Devlin wasn’t ‘good enough’.  

 

So he had to do better with this man. He would do everything right and maybe this man would see that Devlin was _worth_ something.

 

"Tom Riddle," he said confidently, his whole body shaking with the anticipation that they would be impressed with his knowledge. 

 

The red eyes flickered, the twirling wand stopped, and his mouth became straight and pale. Now Devlin was looking into the tip of Voldemort's wand like a Muggle would a gun's barrel. 

 

“Crucio.” 

 

O~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~o

 

Harry Potter was no longer so Golden. He was a man who had loved and lost, won brilliantly and failed miserably, felt an inch away from death and a mile above Heaven. Yet there was one thing that had never changed: Harry Potter hated Death Eaters. Sometimes he thought he hated them more than he hated Voldemort, because each had a choice and all the hundreds of them chose to be on the side of evil. 

It was with this hate in his blood that he spun around to face one of them. Harry thought he hated them the most in battle - when their curses and taunts created a strange, pounding anger in his chest that made him want to lash out at them, controlled only by the knowledge that around him his team felt the same. 

“If you’re going to fight me, curse me to my face,” he shouted, stalking towards the masked man. For a moment he thought he saw a flash of surprise and regret cross the man’s eyes, but he shook the idea from his head. If there was regret it was simply because he was afraid of losing to Harry. If there was surprise then it was only because he hadn’t known he’d been up against _Harry Potter._

Harry would make him regret it - he always did. 

"Alarte Ascendare!" 

The Death Eater flew high into the air, landing hard some distance away. Harry raced after the fallen man. He might have left him there, his head bleeding, his eyes closed with unconsciousness, except that another Death Eater would simply rescue him and Harry wouldn't let _that_ happen. 

He kicked the Death Eater onto his stomach and bound his hands behind his back with specialized cuffs that would stop anyone but an Auror from moving him. He looked for one more moment at the fallen man, his face now in the dirt, and scowled. 

He hated them. He wanted to do to them as they had done to others, but he knew he couldn't. Harry Potter wasn't supposed to want to touch such spells with a ten foot pole, even if it was to torture Death Eaters. 

The thought always proved to him, over and over again, how far he had traveled from innocence.

It was more beneficial to the cause to be Golden Potter than to follow through on his desires. People trusted him, people believed him - and it made things easier. Harry Potter wasn't so Golden anymore, but he was still as much a Hero as ever. 

Suddenly, another Death Eater landed next to his captive, but this one had been levitated much more gently. Ron came up beside him, his captive already bound. 

"We're almost done here. We're rounding the stranglers up - they're not really strong." 

"It is always the weak ones left over," Harry said, turning around to eye his team as they captured, bound, and lined the remaining conscious Death Eaters up. 

In a moment they would begin to walk down the queue of Death Eaters and remove their mask. Harry paused, knowing fully he should be the one to do that job, but also knowing it was his least favorite responsibility. He did not like walking down the line and pulling the skull-like mask from each of their faces, to reveal the human behind it - the human who could not be human at all to have done such heartless acts. 

"I'll do it," Ron offered, and before Harry could argue otherwise, Ron had walked off towards the team and the Death Eaters. 

There were still these two men, too badly injured to wake up with a spell. Behind him, his team was searching each Death Eater's person after removing their mask. He could hear them, disapperating the prisoners one at time. Harry crouched down before these two men and did the same, but left their masks on. He pried their wands from their hands and then moved on to search the pockets of their robes. 

In one mans robe he found a small folded piece of paper, blank on both sides. He would have simply thrown it aside, except that Hermione had drilled into his head over the years to always test such things with a revealing spell. So he did. 

Colored ink rose up onto the surface of the paper, swirling around until a picture formed. A picture of a boy, lying still on his back, his eyes closed, his mouth limp. There was a bruise on the cheek facing the camera. 

Harry hardly ever froze anymore in shock - he was always too afraid to stop. Right now, he felt like he might have stopped breathing, or perhaps his heart had finally decided it had had enough. 

He wanted to close his eyes. To hide from the photo of the boy he had once known, loved, and lost. _Devlin._ His son. 

Harry lunged for the man as emotions, so all-consuming that he didn't think he could ever identify them, exploded inside of himself and sent his magic on edge, humming all around him. He was crouched over the man now, his wand pointed at his skull. The Healers wouldn't want him woken, but Harry didn't care at the moment. He cast the spell, sure he had his son’s murderer in his grasp. 

His eyes were like stained glass of blue and gold, each equally light, each just as striking. 

"My wand is against your neck," Harry said, deadly, when the Death Eater dared to try and move away. Those blue and gold eyes, still unfocused and dazed, found his green. 

"I'm not fighting," the Death Eater said, but Harry ignored him. Harry wasn't the Hero right now and he wasn't about to play by the rules. Of this, he was certain, the Wizarding World would understand. And if they didn’t - well fuck them. 

Far behind him Harry could hear Ron’s faint shout of “Harry! Stop!” and his running footsteps, but Harry didn’t care. He had his son’s murderer...finally. 

"I don't care," he said, his voice soft, as if they were simply having a conversation. It was only when Harry felt this all-consuming rage that he was ever able to speak like this. An oddness bloomed in his chest and his magic always flared. "All I care about is the photo from your robe." 

Ron was nearer now, and Harry struck his wand through the air, erecting a barrier that Ron couldn’t pass. He wasn’t about to be interrupted. 

The Death Eater's eyes were still dazed, but for a brief moment, he seemed to gain enough self-awareness to look confused. Harry grabbed him by his robe neck, dragging him upward. With his wand hand, Harry unfolded the paper, intending to show the little boy, so clearly dead in the photo, to the man. 

Green, like the color of forest foliage in the early evening, met his eyes. Harry froze. The boy's eyes had opened. For one flickering moment, Harry felt something he hadn't in a long time: _hope_. 

The oddness in his chest crept away as it always did when he felt at all happy, and as it did, so did the humming magic. Ron stumbled, having been trying to ram through the now gone shields. Before he could reach them, however, Harry grabbed onto the Death Eater and disappeared. 

He reappeared in front of Sirus' house. 

He knew he couldn't go to the Ministry, not when he didn't intend to follow the rules and he knew he couldn't go home - not with Emma and Alexandra there. He dragged the Death Eater up the front walkway. If there was one thing Harry had gotten good at during the war, it was traveling with Death Eaters. 

"Harry?" Sirius called down from the upper floor. His wards would have told him it was Harry, plus one, to have come through. Harry waited for Sirius to reach him, who paused mid-step on the last stair. "Harry?" 

"May I?" Harry asked, gruffly. 

"I-"

Harry unclenched his wand hand and sent the photo over to Sirius with a simple spell. Sirius caught the object and his own eyes turned into ice. 

"Lets use the office," he said, leading the way. Harry secured the Death Eater to a chair, his cuffs still in place, and then he began to pace. The Death Eater was looking around, infuriatingly calm.   Harry’s all consuming rage was gone and now reason was seeping into his thoughts, making him pause. 

"Tell me about that photo," Harry commanded, his hands on either side of the chair, his body leaning forward, too close for the Death Eater to be comfortable. But uncomfortable or not, he didn't breathe a word. 

"I can be cruel too, you know," he growled, pointing his wand at the Death Eater. He pulled the mask off, roughly, to reveal the human. He had dark hair that fell into his blue and gold eyes. His face was angular and handsome. Harry had never seen him before. 

"Anyone can be cruel, Mr. Potter," the Death Eater said, his voice oddly raspy. 

"I can use any curse I'd like - no one will come and save you."

The Death Eater blinked calmly. 

"He will try, but I am sure you have brought me somewhere outside of his grasp." 

"He never rescues Death Eaters like you - if you were important at all, we'd know you already." 

The Death Eater actually chuckled. 

"You think too little of me, Mr. Potter," he said simply, leaning back in the chair to give the appearance of comfort. "Obviously I am important to you and if I am important to you, don't you think I am equally important to him?" 

"Tell me about the photo," Harry demanded, jabbing the man with his wand and whispering a shock hex. The Death Eater leapt in his chair at the hex, all appearances of comfort gone. 

“Which photo?” But still, he remained calm and almost disinterested, his words unhurried. 

Harry growled with impatience and anger, but grabbed the photo from Sirius to show the Death Eater. The boy’s eyes were closed and Harry felt that hopelessness consume him again - perhaps he had simply dreamed the green eyes. 

“Ah, that photo,” he paused, as if considering, as his eyes scoured the little photograph. Then, abruptly, he looked away, beyond the piece of paper. “Tell me about your photo first,” he said instead, his eyes motioning to the picture Alexandra had ordered for Sirius’ birthday years ago, settled atop Sirius’ desk. Harry had almost forgotten about the photo. Emma was still a baby in the photo, being held by Alexandra. Harry and Sirius’ were leaning together at the shoulders, Harry’s other arm around Alexandra’s waist. In front of Harry and Sirius was a grinning little boy with dark hair and forest green eyes. Devlin. 

Harry pushed the photo down onto the desk so that the Death Eater could no longer see the picture. No Death Eater deserved to see Harry like _that._ This Death Eater didn’t deserve to see his Devlin again. He turned back to the man, more furious than before. He was just about to threaten him again, when he spoke. 

“He looked happy there - I’d never seen him look happy like that.” 

Harry’s blood turned to ice. 

“Happy? Why would he be happy? You tortured him and killed him! When would he have been happy?” Harry rasped out, barely able to speak through his suddenly constricted throat. “Why did you have his photo?”

“I can’t remember,” the man said, attempting and failing to shrug. Harry wanted to punch him. 

“Then think harder,” Harry said, getting close again, “or I’ll make you remember with a couple drops of truth serum!” 

There was silence between them while Harry remained mere inches from the Death Eater’s face. 

“It was a long time ago. I do not recall when it was taken or why it was taken.” 

Harry saw red. Recall when it was taken? There was only a week and a half in which it could have been taken! His son was killed. 

“I took it from another Death Eater,” the Death Eater said after a moment of staring into space. “He wasn’t supposed to have it at all.”

“Why not?” 

“I cannot say. Such would be a discussion of direct orders that were revealed under confidence...” Which meant Voldemort, or some other Death Eater had made him take an oath. An oath about his son. He felt the ice prickle beneath his skin like a thousand little needles. 

“Then tell me something you can!” Harry demanded. For a long moment the Death Eater simply stared at him. 

“He wasn’t dead, when it was taken,” the Death Eater finally said. “Isn’t that what you wanted me to tell you?” 

Harry had almost believed he had dreamed it the first time, but when he looked again, those forest green eyes were staring up, wide open...blinking. Harry brushed his thumb over the little boy’s face. His son...perhaps days or hours or minutes before his death. 

“So this was before you killed him...” 

For a long moment the Death Eater simply stared at him, the intensity of his regard disturbing and oddly familiar to Harry. Then, slowly, the Death Eater let out a long sigh. 

“Prove to me that he is yours,” he said slowly, cautiously. Harry almost punched him. Prove Devlin was his? But something in the man’s eyes kept his hand on the side of the chair, instead. “And I will tell you about what happened to him.” 

“Prove it?” Sirius rasped out, aghast. 

“Yes,” the Death Eater said, as if he were protecting a secret that he wasn’t about to entrust to just anyone. As if Harry’s proof was his cost for betraying Voldemort. Harry stared hard at him, knowing he shouldn’t prove anything to this man - he was the one in control, but also feeling desperate enough to do anything it would take. “His eyes, Mr. Potter,” the Death Eater said after a while, as if he were trying to tell something to Harry. 

“How do you want me to prove it?” He asked carefully, his voice dead, his hand trembling around the photo.  

“With a memory,” he said softly. “Sometime when you felt love for the boy, deeply.” 

“There are far more accurate ways than that,” Harry cut back. He didn’t want this man, who had possibly murdered his son, to see his baby boy _again_. 

“ _The Dark Lord_ is strong enough to manipulate magic,” the Death Eater rasped nervously, “but there is one thing he cannot grasp well enough to manipulate at all.” His eyes roamed around the room and he swallowed hard. “He doesn’t understand love. Prove to me that the boy is yours and prove to me that you are who you _appear to be_.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes at the Death Eater - he seemed smarter than most Death Eaters. He was worried that Harry wasn’t actually Harry? He also seemed to know Voldemort more than most...meaning he spent a lot of time around the man. It was the only reason that he would feel Voldemort would take the time to _trick him_. 

Harry nodded curtly and flicked his gaze up at Sirius. 

“I have a Pensieve in the library,” he said and went to fetch the devise. Harry and the Death Eater stared silently at each other until he returned. 

He could have picked any memory with his son in it, because Harry was certain he had loved the boy deeply every minute he had been around him, but he chose a memory in which Devlin looked most like the boy in the photo - just so there wouldn’t be any confusion. He shivered as he pulled it out of his mind, like he was losing part of himself. 

It spread across the still surface of the Pensieve slowly, seeping downward. Harry turned to the Death Eater and yanked him upward, shoving him hard into the memory, then he went as well. 

_The Death Eater wasn’t bound in the Pensieve - he flexed his hands as the liquid memory built around them, half muted colors and eerily sharp sounds. They were in the hallway at Godric’s hallow, the memory Harry standing before them. He was hanging up his coat after work._

_“Daddy?” It was Devlin’s voice, coming from the kitchen. Both Harry’s smile. The Death Eater’s eyes widened as if in recognition._

_“In the hallway, Devlin,” the memory Harry called out, and all of a sudden there was the drumming of quick little feet._

_Harry watched the Death Eater as his brow furrowed, watching the boy. Trying to tell if he was the real Devlin, it seemed. Meanwhile the little boy has thrown himself at his father, his hands covered with flour and what looked suspiciously like frosting on the tip of his nose._

_“Daddy - I need to tell you something!”_

_“Alright...but have you been baking?”_

_“It’s a secret, Daddy,” the little boy cheered, pulling himself up on Harry’s chest until his little lips were by his ear. “I learned a new trick,” he whispered, as if it were the most wonderful secret in the world. The Pensieve made the boys words loud enough for them both to hear._

_Harry’s green gaze went to the kitchen doorway, where Alexandra was waiting, obviously eager to see Harry’s reaction to their son’s ‘trick’ as well._

_Harry kissed Devlin’s nose, taking away the frosting and pretending not to have heard about a trick._

_“Oh, that is good frosting. Did you make it? Is that cake I smell?”_

_“Yes, with Mummy,” the boy said, waving his hand dismissively. “But that’s not important,” he added, nodding somberly. “My trick is better.”_

_“I donno, Devlin...you know how I love cake.” Harry tickled the boy a bit, but he didn’t giggle, instead he bit the inside of his cheek, determined to remain somber-faced until Harry gave his ‘trick’ the attention it deserved._

_“Maybe my trick is about cake,” he said, his little face scrunching up in his impersonation of annoyance. The Death Eater smiled here and the real Harry almost hauled him out of the memory by his throat, but he made himself calm down._

_“Oh, you didn’t tell me that!” Harry cheered, bouncing the boy a bit._

_“That’s because I told you it was better,” he said and his eyes rolled just how Sirius’ did whenever one of his jokes had been ignored._

_“I was just teasing you Devlin,” Harry said finally, ruffling the boys hair and kissing his cheek. “I really do want to see your trick. I bet it’s way better than the cake.”_

_“Your teasing takes up too much time,” Devlin said with a pout, but then he was wiggling to be put down and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You ready?”_

_“Yup.”_

_“You swear? Uncle Sirius said he was ready but then he fell down. You’re not gonna fall down, are you?”_

_“Nope.”_

_Devlin motioned for Harry to get closer to him, so Harry crouched down in the hallway and watched as Devlin cupped his hands together and then blew into them. Magic._

_Even in his memory, Harry could remember the exact way Devlin’s magic had felt. It had been sharper and cleaner than all his accidental magic and more beautiful than anything Harry had ever felt._

_When the child opened his hands, there was a lily settled in his palms, shimmering. Even now, watching the memory, Harry swallows hard and tries to hold back his tears._

_“I made you a special lily flower since you always look sad at regular ones,” he said sweetly, coming up to him so that the flower was right below Harry’s chin._

_“Oh, Devlin,” he had said, breathless. The Death Eater was looking intently at the little boy, frowning. Harry kept his regard on the Death Eater, knowing if he looked at his son now, he would cry. The memory was full of love, so deeply that it saturated the Pensieve environment._

_“Mummy said it was Grandma’s birthday today, so I told her we had to have a party. Will you come see all of my lilies, Daddy?”_

_Harry allowed the child to pull him towards the kitchen. There were shimmering lilies everywhere - in Emma’s hair, one dancing before her as she giggled, on the table, floating above the table, and on the cake. Sirius and Remus were settled at the table too._

_Without a word, Harry lifted the boy and simply held him close, breathing into his hair and hiding his tears of joy and pride and love._

The Pensieve swirled into emptiness and released them. Harry glared at the Death Eater.

“Is that enough proof?” Harry sneered.  

“He was so happy,” the Death Eater said, breathless and oddly taken aback. “He looked like such a child...” 

“He _was_ a child. Just a little boy, who didn’t know anything about death or torture!” This was Sirius, his blue eyes ablaze. Sometimes Harry thought that Sirius and he were the worst off, never completely able to move beyond Devlin’s death. 

“I proved it - now you tell me what you know,” Harry said, his voice hard and unyielding. 

The Death Eater licked his lips and swallowed. He pulled himself up straighter in his chair, an awkward gesture since his hands were still bound behind him. 

“I wasn’t there...when they tortured him,” he began softly. “But...I heard...that he wouldn’t scream. Even under Crucio, he refused to scream.” He fidgeted. Harry collapsed against the desk. Sirius hid his face behind a hand. “When he passed out...the Dark Lord thought he was dead, but he wasn’t and he said ‘heal the boy, I want to make him scream.’ It took months for the boy to heal-” 

Harry felt his heart quicken as his head realized an impossibility with the man’s words.

“and it was while he was healing that I met him first. He was a strange boy - he said he was six, but he might have been seven or eight. He introduced himself as Devlin, but then said that wasn’t his real name and he was looking for a new one. He always knew what you wanted to hear, but he didn’t always say it. He would watch you and you felt like he was memorizing you - and he was. He could copy things - behaviors, spells, words, accents...anything. If he saw it, he could do it. He...he impressed the Dark Lord.” 

“You’re lying,” Harry broke in, before he let himself believe the man’s words. “Devlin was killed within two weeks of his arrival...we buried the body he sent back.” 

The Death Eater looked up at him and there was a sadness in his eyes that Harry did not expect to see looking back at him from such a person. 

“Yes, you buried a body,” the Death Eater said, “but not your sons.”

 


	2. Only Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets some answers, and is faced with more questions.

The Death Eater was almost certain Harry Potter and Sirius Black’s hearts skipped at least three beats. Tangling in the tension and uncertainty of the room, the Death Eater could sense hope, but it was unlike the hope one might have expected; these men have learned hope is more a symbol of fighting that others can recognize and cling to, than a true emotion. It was a bitter sort of hope, lingering in the air like the sweet-scent from a hidden sleep potion steaming up from a cup of tea. He waited in silence.

“What is your name?” Potter asked suddenly.

“Geoffrey,” he said softly - cautiously. 

“Well _Geoffrey,_ now it’s your god damn turn to ‘prove it’!” Potter’s voice was demanding and intimidating - Geoffrey knew he had opened a door that could lead either to his safety, because of the importance of the information he held, or death, because he would be the one person in Harry Potter’s grasp who had aided in the imprisonment of Devlin Potter. His magic reminded Geoffrey of the boy’s magic; was deep and chillingly calm. 

“Tell me how.” Either way, he didn’t want to die here and now, tied up and defenseless. Geoffrey was walking on the edge of a velvet-covered knife. 

“Give me evidence,” Potter whispered fiercely.  “Prove to me that St. Mungo’s best staff are inept at identifying a _dead_ body.” There was anger in Potter’s eyes, pushing aside the hope. His magic had one difference from the boys - it did not lash out, instead it began to boil and unfurl slowly, billowing out around him like steam. 

“I have betrayed him already,” Geoffrey whispered, leaning as close to Harry Potter as his restraints would allow. “I have no evidence to provide that would satisfy you. If I showed you my memories you would accuse me of creating them. If I make an oath of truth you will say that I have nothing to lose and therefore, why should I not risk death? As you can see, I have no way to assure you completely, Mr. Potter. At the same time...you have no way to completely prove I am lying.” 

Geoffrey was a man who had grown up knowing about distrust from the moment he had become a werewolf, surrounded by old-blood wizarding society. It had made it necessary for him to be especially good at the art of manipulation and persuasion. Right now Potter’s weakness was the idea that he might have given up on a child who had never really died - had never stopped _needing_ him. Doubt had entered his mind and it was to Geoffrey’s benefit to keep him from burying his doubt.  

“Nevertheless, you will do both.” Finality settled forebodingly in Potter’s voice. Geoffrey mastered the urge to swallow - Potter was not taking the bait as eagerly as Geoffrey had hoped. “How did you know Devlin?” 

“I am his Guard.” Potter’s head tipped slightly and he dragged in a breath of air. Black’s eyes went wide. Neither of them had suspected his position. It had its advantages, Geoffrey was aware. 

"And what, exactly, do you guard him against? It can't be those disease infested Death Eaters – you're one as well!" Black spat, his eyes wild for a moment. Geoffrey could see the hauntedness in them that he recognized as exposure to Dementors.  He held back his temper. He was in no position to be angry. 

”I was ordered to protect him from outside dangers, from identification by spies, from angry Death Eaters who had no rank to harm him, and from himself. I have never received an order that would put him in mortal harm. Another Death Eater, myself included, has never been allowed to harm him." He worded himself carefully; he knew neither truths nor lies must escape him in this room. The ground was fragile beneath his feet and he must make it to more stable earth. Alive.

"Mortal danger, how informing!" Black sneered. Potter was quiet next to him. "There's a lot you can do to a person without placing them in mortal danger!"

"You said from himself?" Potter's voice was soft and uncertain. Geoffrey found uncertainty sat unwell in Potter's eyes; like a great illness that you feared would infect the world. He wondered if he would feel the same, should uncertainty present itself in Voldemort, but decided it was a worthless question; Voldemort was either incapable or to calculated to show the emotion.

"So far as the child informed me, he was not bitten by one of the Dark Lord's werewolves." Potter's jaw clenched, but he nodded. There were not many werewolf children in the world. It was rare that a grown werewolf desire to bite a child. Given the choice, a healthy werewolf would always choose an adult over a child, because it was more likely the adult would survive. This excluded, of course, the werewolves Voldemort kept merely because of their extremism. Geoffrey avoided them when possible and did not let the boy step foot near them, even if his caretaker must.

"No, Devlin was bitten when he was very young." So honest. So brutally honest - even to his enemies face. The boy had never been willing to tell him how he was bitten. Truth be told, Geoffrey knew it had been before his capture from the healed wounds, not from the boy. Potter could have remained silent, or lied, but he told the truth. And now Geoffrey hated him. Hated him more then he ever did as a Death Eater. Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, and Head Auror, had not protected his child from a werewolf. He wanted to lunged forward and pin him to the wall. But he won’t. Survival reigns higher than even the beast within.

Silence fell between them. Potter fiddled with the hem of his Auror robes and Black with a ring on his finger. Geoffey sighed. 

Potter was too human. Voldemort was too inhuman. The boy was too unchildlike. Geoffrey would like to know who or what chose the destiny of the powerful. But he never will, so he sighed again.

“When...when did you become his Guard?” 

“When the Dark Lord moved to the camp I was stationed at, he supposedly also brought a boy with him, that we weren’t to harm, but none of us had yet to see him. A week in, he took me aside and told me that on the full moons he would be introducing a boy to transform with us-”

“You’re a werwolf?” Black asked. 

“Yes... so I met the boy once, directly before the full moon. He didn’t speak much to me. He was gone when we all woke up. The Dark Lord didn’t want us speaking to him, I think. I saw him next a week before the following full moon. He snuck into a meeting, where he wasn’t meant to be, and the Dark Lord ordered me to take him away, back to his tent. It was then, I suppose, that my official assignment began.” 

“And now?” Potter’s gaze was half unfocused and Geoffrey wondered if the question had partly been for himself. 

“Now what, Mr. Potter?” Geoffrey asked, his voice calm like he were talking to the boy. 

“Now what is he like?” He finally asked, slumping against the desk. 

Geoffrey frowned, more fearful of this question than any other Potter had asked. What did Potter expect a boy to be like who had spent four years with the Dark Lord? He couldn’t possibly expect to have that little innocent boy back, could he? But Potter was too human and even though Geoffrey could see reason in his eyes, he could also see an unwillingness to yield for that reason. His brain knew he wouldn’t get that boy back, but his heart wasn’t ready to let the boy go. Geoffrey swallowed. He was the last one who would survive through telling Potter’s heart to catch up with his brain. 

“Right now?” He drew in a breath. “Right now he is probably pacing in his room, wondering where I have been.” 

“That’s not what-” but Potter never finished, because there was the distinct sound of the front door opening. Sirius and Potter had their wands out before a moment could flicker past, and in the next moment Geoffrey was being hauled towards a closet, pushed inside, and told to “stay quiet” before his world became...nothing. Potter had obviously not trusted him - Geoffrey heard the slight fizzle of a silencing charm, and there did not appear to be any muggle means of lighting inside the closet (not that Geoffrey could have reached it, either way). He sat for a long time in the darkness, with only musty old cloaks and his thoughts to keep him company. Thoughts about the boy. 

What was the boy worth? 

He had seen plainly how much Potter cared for the boy, but he also knew Potter hadn’t protected him. Potter had given up on him and Geoffrey couldn’t imagine how anyone who knew Devlin could ever simply give up. To Geoffrey it didn’t matter that they had been sent a body that had probably passed all sorts of identity spells. They wouldn’t have believed it if Voldemort had sent them Harry Potter’s body - how could they believe it about the child? 

Suddenly there were a pair of piercing blue eyes looking down at him, the owner silhouetted by the onslaught of light. 

“You’re the Death Eater, hm?” Her voice was clipped and impatient. She used magic to pull him out of the closet and magic to make him stand upright. It felt a bit like the boy’s - possessive, steady, and quick. She smelled like Potter. "Did you hear me, or have they already given you too much truth serum?"

He looked up into her intense regard, feeling as if she were summing him up: his worth, his honesty, his age, his health - everything. 

“I’m the Death Eater, yes,” he said softly, but with an edge of strength to his words. She did not seem the type to be pacified by submission. “It is Geoffrey, actually.” 

Her eyes flickered over his face one more time. She turned away from him to regard Potter. 

“A werewolf, Harry? What do you want with one of his werewolves?” 

Geoffrey arched a brow, impressed. In front of him but behind the woman, Potter was pursing his lips, obviously deciding between admitting to some feeble excuse, or telling her the much more reasonable truth.  

“I didn’t know he was a werewolf, Alex,” he said haltingly, with a biting regard towards Geoffrey; as if Geoffrey had given her some clue he hadn’t given him? Geoffrey wanted to laugh at the regard, because he had given Potter many clues and this woman none at all. 

“Then why hide him? Why come here? Why _break the rules_ for _him?_ ”

She was close to him now. One or the other could have leaned forward and started a kiss, but Geoffrey thought that was farthest from their minds. Nevertheless, there was more concern than anger in the woman’s eyes and her rapid heart rate told Geoffrey she suspected something was happening around her that was out of her control. 

She was more logical than Potter. She wouldn’t expect to get her little boy back. 

“He found a photo of a boy in my robes and thought it most interesting,” Geoffrey said casually, as if the question had originally been addressed to him and it was a mere mistake that she had been turned toward Potter as he answered. Potter’s muscles twitched as if he were holding himself back from attacking Geoffrey, but Geoffrey let the idea slide past - he had to focus on the present. 

She turned _very_ slowly towards him, her eyes narrowed, her lips drawn tight, her nostrils flared. She doubted him, clearly. 

“A boy?” She asked, her voice almost sweet. Her face didn’t match. 

“Yes,” he said simply. “It’s in his pocket now,” he added, motioning with his head toward Potter. She turned back around to face him, demanding he give it over. It took several demands, but finally he slid it into her hands. 

Geoffrey thought the boys eyes must have been closed at the moment, because the woman’s face went ashen. His theory was proven right when Harry leaned forward and whispered, “they open, just wait.” And then she took a breath quite suddenly. 

“How old is he here?” She said promptly, without looking up from the photograph or turning around. Geoffrey breathed in. The boy would forgive him for treating Potter however he had too, but the boy would never forgive him for upsetting his mother. 

“I think he was six.”

“You think? Wasn’t it in your pocket?” Geoffrey tried to avoid that question. 

“When he was six he decided that he should learn how to fly with his magic like the Dark Lord and took it upon himself to climb trees and then jump from them. It was the last time I recall such a distinct bruise.” 

“That is a handprint!” 

“Yes, indeed. The Dark Lord thought it quite foolish that he had broken his wand arm falling from the tree.”

“Did _Voldemort_ simply leave the broken arm as well?” 

“No.” 

“It was healed, then?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

She pursed her lips - Geoffrey could see the corner of them, even though she hadn’t looked up yet.

“And now...is he still alive?” 

“Yes.” 

“How would you know?”

“I am tied to him, magically. I feel if he is in danger.” 

“Why?”

“I am his Guard. The Dark Lord decided it was my fault he had broken his arm falling from the tree. Now I always know when the boy believes himself to be in danger, or when he is hurt, or upset.” 

“That is Dark Magic.” 

“It is only on me, not the boy.” 

“Why go through all the trouble?” 

“Presumably to torture me,” Geoffrey said, with an edge of humor to his voice that finally made the woman turn around. 

“Voldemort likes his torture to be swift and painful - that is neither.” It was a question disguised as a statement. 

“He punished me swiftly and painfully as well, I assure you,” he said, scowling a little as he said it to her - admitted it to her. Geoffrey still remembered the gleam that had been in Voldemort’s eyes. _I assigned you to the boy specifically to keep him unharmed, Geoffrey. Now I find you have disregarded your assignment and in your neglect, my belonging has been harmed. He should not have been left - you should have_ known _he was doing something foolish and_ stopped _it._

“And what are you to him?” 

“He’s Devlin’s ‘guard’,” Harry answered and it seemed to Geoffrey he was trying to prove he _had_ learned something about the situation. Harry didn’t pipe up to supply anymore information about his responsibilities and after a moment Geoffrey opened his mouth and repeated exactly what he had told Harry. After he was done, she frowned for a moment and then turned towards Harry. 

“Let me see whatever memories you’ve extracted,” she suddenly demanded, having spotted the basin atop the desk. Harry frowned. 

“Alex, we didn’t extract any memories from him. He told me his cost for betraying Voldemort was to know Devlin was mine and I wasn’t playing some trick on him.” 

It looked like she wanted to know more, but she held her tongue, obviously eager to have some answers away from Geoffrey’s prying ears. She turned back to the Death Eater, studying him. 

“Was my husbands proof satisfactory?” She asked and Geoffrey wasn’t sure if it was the tilt of her head, the slight purse to her lips, or the minuscule arch of her brow that made him certain she was setting a trap for him. He had no choice but to walk right into it, either.

“Yes.” He kept his answer as short as possible - giving her as little reaction as he could and hoping as a consequence to extract more of one from her. To get another clue about this trap. 

“Good. Now it is your turn to prove to me that your Devlin is my Devlin as well.” Her fingers twitched and immediately her wand was in her hand, held at Geoffrey’s head. “Don’t think too carefully about what you want to show me, _Geoffrey._ I’ll be able to see any alterations you make.”

She had given him all the clue he needed and now he felt doubt fill him with dread. He had been counting on her to be level headed - to understand she wouldn’t be getting that innocent little boy back. Now he wasn’t very certain of his earlier idea. _Your Devlin is my Devlin as well._ But the boy Geoffrey knew _wasn’t_ her boy in anything except blood. He wasn’t like the boy in Potter’s memories. 

“But he’s not,” he found himself whispering, despite the wand at his throat that should have made him _very_ aware of his position in the room. “He’s not like your Devlin at all.” 

For a moment a shadow of hesitation flittered across her blue eyes and then it was gone, replaced by an additional layer of determination. The wand dug into Geoffrey’s neck. 

“You’re in no position to argue about theoretical things,” she said firmly, but the whole-hearted hatred had disappeared from the edge of her voice and there was a bit of understanding there instead. 

“He was a strange little boy,” Geoffrey found himself retelling, his voice monotone. He felt strangely empty and it was no longer fear that made his limbs feel heavy and his mind sluggish, but pity, because she was about to see things she couldn’t possibly be ready for, just as Geoffrey hadn’t been ready to see the innocent child that had been the boy’s beginning.  “He told me his name was Devlin, but that he was looking for a new one - and when one of the other werewolves accidentally called him “ _Dubhán”_ he clung to the name.” 

His eyes were locked with her own, but then he closed them as he pulled the memories to the surface of his mind. He motioned with his hand each time he was ready for her to pull one and transfer it to the Pensieve. In the end, he had chosen three. 

They swirl innocently enough in the stone basin, but Geoffrey felt sick, just looking at the Pensieve. Potter, Black, and the boys mother peered over the rim of the basin, hesitating. 

“I know I am in no position to demand promises, but I plead with you: please do not tell him that I have shown you these things.” 

Alexandra was the only one who turned around to regard him. She frowned for a moment, but then she nodded firmly. 

“We won’t,” she said to him, before she turned back around and delved into the bowl along with the other two. 

Pensieves allow memories to be brought out of an individual and temporally rewritten into a format viewable to many, but Pensieves were also designed with Realistic-Recollection magic, which meant they mimicked the remembered environment to give a neutral point of view. Harry blinked into the dim lighting and waited for his eyes to adjust.

_Voldemort. Harry felt his muscles tense at the mere sight of him, but then he stilled, catching sight of the small boy, hiding himself behind the monster’s legs. It was such an odd sight, that he found himself blinking a couple times. He heard Alexandra draw in a breath. Sirius seemed speechless._

_‘So tiny’ the notion seemed to hang in the air, implanted by Geoffrey’s mind. It was clearly Devlin and he looked so small and shy. Voldemort’s hand snaked behind himself to clasp the boy’s shoulder and drag him forward, away from whatever protection the child had thought he had found behind the monster’s legs._

_“Stand up straight,” Harry heard him hiss, in English. It seemed it should have been a whisper, but Geoffrey’s werewolf ears had probably found it easy enough to hear. “What have I said about fear?”_

_Devlin’s green eyes swerved to the monster’s red ones and his back straightened._

_“Fear is for lesser beings than you and I,” the child said, his voice crisp and confident. The fear snuck away from his eyes and he withdrew his hands from his pockets. Harry felt his heart break a bit at the words._

_Voldemort straightened himself._

_“This boy will be transforming with you. I expect him_ unharmed _in the morning. There will be no excuses as I have supplied every single one of you with Wolfsbane.” Harry turned. He hadn’t been paying attention to the surroundings - only to his son. He finds himself face to face with the memory of ten or so men, each of them looking a bit haggard and withdrawn. Werewolves._

_There was a nod from each of them._

_“Come, child,” Voldemort said softly, with a firm edge that sent shiver up Harry’s spine. The child followed him to the memory-Geoffrey. “This is Geoffrey. Remain with him.”_

_“Yes, sir,” he said. Voldemort nodded and then he swept from the room, his green robes swallowing him in their swell._

_The memory Geoffrey peered at the boy for a long moment._

_“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “I should introduce you to everyone.”_

_“That won’t be necessary,” Devlin said, his voice clipped and dismissive._

_“Have you...transformed before?” Geoffrey said and something was clearly making him a bit uncomfortable about the boy. He shuffled his feet, while Devlin stayed perfectly still, extruding confidence._

_“Yes,” he said, annoyance creeping into his voice. “He didn’t say you had to comfort me,” he added, scathing. “And I find it rather annoying that you think you have to know my life story just because we’re all going to be screaming in pain in a moment.”_

_Geoffrey nodded like he had to Voldemort. As if he had just been given an order. Devlin settled himself onto the ground, hugging his knees, looking at everyone. Somehow, even in a childish position, he seemed to extrude the opposite._

_In charge. It was like he knew his place in this room, and it wasn’t that of a child or a newcomer - it was at the top, in charge. They were all afraid of_ him _. Harry swallowed. He had always known his son was more clever than brave and he had purposefully avoided exposing Devlin to these sorts of mind games._

_The memory sped up until everyone began to transform. Harry watched Geoffrey watch Devlin, trying to keep his eyes on the boy through the whole process. Geoffrey was screaming in agony, but Devlin was quiet, his whole body tense with his fingers digging into the bare dirt floor. His green eyes were opened and they remained on Geoffrey._

_‘Alpha’ the word hung in the air, ingrained there by Geoffrey and Harry felt himself frowning, disturbed._

_He had never seen his son as wolf before - it was something Remus and he shared and Harry had always thought it safer to have the boy understand it was an absolute separation. With the potion there was the human mind to contend with and Harry was always a bit afraid that the child might have tried to leave his room to seek out his parents and that the potion might have malfunctioned. He had always felt safe with Remus there to watch the child._

_His son was playful as a werewolf - for a moment that all-consuming fear and sadness lost a bit of it’s grip on him. He felt a shadow of a smile pull at his lips as Devlin raced around the room, pouncing on the adult werewolves, his tail high in the air, his tongue hanging out in a pant._

_He watched as Geoffrey finally managed to subdue the little wolf, tugging him back towards a corner of the tent by the nape of his neck. He curled around Devlin, keeping him still, until Devlin finally fell asleep, and so did Geoffrey. The memory faded slowly then gave way to another one._

_This time they were in a crowded, well lit room. There was a table in the center and around it sat twenty or so Death Eaters. Harry knew a few of them, but many he did not. Geoffrey was seated at the far end of the table and he was fidgeting under the table - Harry rather thought that Geoffrey’s status had risen greatly with Devlin’s appearance._

_Suddenly all the murmuring stopped abruptly, because the tent door has opened and in it’s frame was a small boy. The room was perfectly hushed and Harry could see the fear enter his son’s eyes._

_“Geoffrey, get rid of the child,” Voldemort said._

_“Where shall I bring him, My Lord?” Geoffrey asked, after he had approached the boy._

_“To my tent. The boy knows the password.” Geoffrey nodded and then they were tugged out of the tent and into the cool night air along with Devlin._

_“What were you thinking?” The werewolf asked, eying the small child. Devlin tugged away from his grasp and growled._

_“Don’t touch me!” He said loudly, his little hands as fists at his sides. “I didn’t say you could!”_

_“I don’t listen to you,” Geoffrey said smoothly, grabbing the boy again, eying the closed tent door, and hurrying them away. Harry felt superficial relief overwhelm him. “You are not My Lord.”_

_They had stopped in front of another tent. Devlin looked set to argue, but Geoffrey tugged on him again and said “password please,” firmly. When they were inside, entering into a small sitting room, Devlin rounded on the man._

_“You’re stupid,” he said defiantly. “You don’t know a thing.”_

_“Is that so?” Geoffrey said, sounding a bit bored._

_“You don’t even know what a ‘Lord’ is!”_

_Geoffrey frowned for a moment, inspecting the boy with curiosity._

_“What?” He asked, confused and taken aback. The boy crossed his arms. Harry waited with baited breath and Alexandra had a knowing smirk tugging at her lips, as if she already knew what Devlin was about to say. He stood on his tip toes, his head tilted back so that he had a good a look at Geoffrey._

_“He’s not the Lord at all. You’re just a stupid Wizard who can’t look past his nose, so you don’t know! But I know! My mama taught me!”_

_Geoffrey arched one of his eyebrows - regarding the child with what looked like humor and sadness all mixed together. He bent down, that boredom gone from his features along with his annoyance._

_“Devlin-”_

_“That isn’t my name anymore. I’m Dubhán now.”_

_“Dubhán, that isn’t the kind of ‘Lord’ the Dark Lord is.”_

_“I_ know _!”_

_“No...he’s not trying to pretend to be God, either.” Geoffrey said slowly, as if trying to recall something. “That’s a Muggle thing, not a Magical thing.”_

_“My mama believes in God!” Devlin defended._

_“Well, she’s a mudblood, isn’t she?” Geoffrey reasoned, the word leaving his mouth smoothly. Devlin scrunched up his face. “Her parent’s are muggles,” he explained, “so of course she believes in their God.”_

_Silence. Devlin’s glare was potent. Harry would know - it was not something Voldemort taught his boy how to do._

_“Voldemort is saying he is powerful - like a ruler.”_

_Devlin frowned._

_“It wouldn’t a good idea to let him know you felt he was pretending to be a muggle god,” Geoffrey said after a moment, coming very close to the child. “He would be angry,” he said slowly, as if imploring the child to understand._

_“No, I don’t think so,” Devlin said after a while. “Lots of people do whatever God tells them to do and lots of people do what my Grandfather tells them to do, too.”_

_The door had opened behind Geoffrey to admit Voldemort, who was sharing a regard with Devlin._

_“Indeed, coming from a dimwitted child it is most like a compliment,” Voldemort said scathingly. Devlin frowned, but held his tongue. “Indeed, he would find it unnecessary to be angry about such a comment, considering he had plenty reason to be angry at the child unlocking his door and going_ where he does not belong!” _There was a hiss of anger and venom at the end, Voldemort’s facade falling away._

_Devlin worried his lip, but only from the inside of his mouth. Harry knew this move - this expression that meant he was thinking of every reason that had made it right in his head. Harry waited, worry eating at his stomach, his mind echoing with one word...punishment._

_“I made a mistake,” he said after a moment, pulling himself up straight and looking at Voldemort, eye to eye. “I won’t do it again.”_

_“Geoffrey, you are dismissed,” Voldemort bit out, not looking away from the child. The memory swirled around them as Geoffrey left the tent, righting itself as a new memory._

_Devlin was older here and for a moment Harry felt his heart simply stop beating in his worry. They were in a tent again. Devlin was on his knee’s, bleeding from his shoulder. There was a man in front of him and off to the side, stood Geoffrey._

_Devlin got to his feet._

_“What are you doing?” He shouted at the unknown man, who was putting away his wand. “Take that out right_ now _. I didn’t say we were done! I_ can _do this!”_

_“You are bleeding, Dubhán.”_

_“I’ll make you bleed too, if you don’t let me try again. I am perfectly fine.”_

_The man pulled out his wand again and aimed it at the boy, but not before sharing a look with Geoffrey in the corner._

_“Diffindo,” the unknown man said, and Harry waited for the little boy to side step, to fall to the security of the ground, to do_ anything _, but instead, at the last moment, he withdrew a wand and uttered the shield charm._

_He summoned a shield and it held against the curse, but just barely._

_“And you thought I didn’t have it in me,” he said, jeering, to the unknown man. He stepped forward, smiling. “Now you can put your wand away,” he added, motioning to the man._

_“Right you are. I guess you’ll be off to tell The Dark Lord of your success?” The man asked, nonchalantly - as if this were a regular comment. Harry felt anger boil in his stomach at the casualness. Devlin was still bleeding!_

_“Why? What is so impressive about a silly little shield charm?”_

_For a moment the man looked set to argue, which he should have, Harry snarled, because it was absolutely amazing from a boy who couldn’t be more than eight! But then he paused and glanced at Geoffrey, who shook his head ever so slightly._

_“I suppose you’re right. Especially since it took you a whole two days to master the charm.”_

_“Oh shut it,” Devlin said, with the air of a child who has said much worse. “You’re a horrible teacher, that’s the problem.”_

_He might have been being rude, but Harry caught the smirk and so did the unknown man._

The memory faded and suddenly Harry was standing next to Sirius’ desk once more, Alex pale beside him, Sirius’ eyes vacant and disturbed, and his own mind reeling. 

“I warned you,” the Death Eater said behind him. “Devlin was a little boy full of fear - he died the moment he was stood before Voldemort.”


	3. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoffrey returns to camp and Harry returns home. Neither has the night they are expecting.

His mind spun with what he had just witnessed, the harshness of reality bearing its weight upon him until Harry couldn’t help it - he staggered over to a chair and sat down. His elbows pressed painfully into his thighs, his head resting in his hands. He felt like trembling, but held himself stiff, because he knew if he allowed any of his emotions to manifest themselves physically - even one harmless tremble - he would start crying. 

Harry remembered the first time his boy had ever been afraid. When he had been little over a year, Sirius had transformed within his view - to this day Harry isn’t sure why it had frightened him that time, because he’d seen it before. Alexandra had said something about _being more aware_ , but _why_ hadn’t been the point. Fear had entered his eyes, forcing them wider, making them sharper, and instead of _crying_ like he did whenever someone told him ‘no’ he had simply stood there, shaking. 

The next time he had been afraid, he hadn’t shaken at all - he’d just stood there and his little chest had puffed out and his eyes had narrowed. He had looked _angry_ , except his eyes had been wide and sharp and Harry had _known_ it was fear. After he’d been bitten fear had always seemed to make him smarter rather than rasher and Harry had been so relieved, because his boy had seemed to have no fear of the reckless, just like his father. 

Devlin did not need to act afraid to be afraid. Devlin had been afraid in those memories. Afraid of Voldemort. Except his boy had always been clever. Harry felt that agony return to his chest as his mind grappled with the fact that his six year old had deceived Voldemort. How had Voldemort not seen his fear? _Or perhaps he had..._

Voldemort wouldn’t have cared that Devlin feared him so long as he was getting what he wanted from Devlin. Which brought up the next chest-crushing concern - what _had he wanted_ from Devlin? Why had he kept the child alive? Why had he bothered to make sure Harry and Alexandra thought he was dead? 

 _Why?_ It plagued his mind incessantly, whispered in Devlin’s little voice, full of curiosity and innocence. Once upon a time Harry had gritted his teeth at that word, from that voice, willing himself to remain calm despite the onslaught of ‘why?’ that he _knew_ was coming - now he would give anything to have Devlin following him around his house, whispering ‘why?’ over and over again. He’d never take it for granted again. 

“What do you intend to do with the information I am sharing?” The Death Eater asked, his head turned slightly. Harry just realized that he’d been sitting next to the man for several minutes. Alexandra eyed him intently, Sirius looked a little less ghost-like. Harry felt reality’s weight shift on his chest again. 

“Rescue him, of course,” he said, his voice raspy and full of disbelieving air. _Rescue him. Hold him. Kiss him. Tell him how sorry I am. Tell him how much he is loved._

“What is rescue to you, Mr. Potter - is bound to feel like kidnap to him,” the Death Eater whispered, his voice all at once full of hatred as well as pity. 

Harry knew. Somewhere in himself, he understood the Death Eater’s words. Knew Devlin would be different in every way imaginable. 

“ _Why? What is so impressive about a silly little shield charm?”_

_“Lots of people do whatever God tells them to do and lots of people do what my Grandfather tells them to do, too.”_

_“Don’t touch me! I didn’t say you could!”_

_“That isn’t my name anymore. I’m Dubhán now.”_

He clenched his jaw to imprison the sob that wanted so desperately to escape him. Even Devlin knew he wasn’t Devlin anymore... and yet...

“Harry?”

Alexandra’s voice was soft and soothing and Harry knew to her this was just like crying - showing weakness in front of this Death Eater. She would do anything for him and what had he done for her? Given her a name that practically begged for trouble to find it. Made her own mother tell her the secret about her heritage that Harry often wondered if Alexandra would have better without knowing. Given her a child and allowed it to be taken away from her... 

“Harry?” 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. 

“Mr. Potter - you’ll have to start thinking logically again soon. Right now...Devlin...is surely wondering where I have been.” 

Anger blossomed in his chest and Harry fed the fire, clinging to the ironically stabilizing emotion. Harry was always the most lost when he was feeling nothing at all. 

“Why _were_ you on a raid - away from Devlin?” 

The Death Eater sunk into the chair, away from Harry’s gaze. Alexandra was frowning now too. Sirius still looked as if he might be sick. 

“I was standing in for someone.” 

“But you weren’t supposed to be there!”

“No. I am meant to be at camp and as I was saying Devlin-”

“What was more important than his safety - you say you are attached to him with magic-”

“My friend’s baby died, Mr. Potter. Voldemort would not have been sympathetic. I stood in his place so that he would not be punished so soon after the tragedy.”

Harry’s retort and argument died in his throat, because he understood that pain. He was struck once more by the human behind the Death Eater mask and as always, he hated the feeling. They had no right to feel like he felt - to bleed like their victims. They had no right to be upset about their own children, when they were capable of slaughtering others. They had no right to _be afraid_ when they were willing - happily - to make others quake with the emotion. But even the worst choices, Harry had come to realize in his life, could not strip you of your humanity. Choices may define who you are, as Dumbledore had once told him, but _as long as you were afraid, you were human._

Harry always tried very hard not to consider Voldemort when he was entertaining this notion. 

“You have to get him out of there,” he said harshly to the Death Eater instead. He tried to ignore the edge of desperation that leaked into his tone, or the way he was facing the man, without hatred etched onto his features. He was supposed to hate this man, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit of that slip, because now he had to put his hope into this man - into this _Death Eater_. 

“He isn’t your Devlin anymore,” the Death Eater said, imploringly. Willing Harry to understand, and Harry _did_ understand, but the Death Eater didn’t understand what was far more important: _Harry didn’t care._ It didn’t matter that Devlin wouldn’t rush into his arms -Harry would live with never being able to hold the boy again, if he could just look at him and know he was _safe_. It wouldn’t matter if the boy hated him - it would _hurt_ , but Harry would still love him and that’s all that would matter. Nothing would matter except that he would have Devlin back and he would be _safe_. 

_Not dead. Not cold. Not lifeless. Not beaten. Not starved. Not torn to bits by curses. Not laying in a casket. Not too-still. Not pale and blue and black._

_Alive. Warm. Breathing. Looking. Learning. Growing._ **_Feeling._ ** _Flushed, pink, and lively._

_“_ I can peel apart your mind,” Harry said harshly, feeling that anger consuming him again. He wanted Devlin back. Needed him. “I can find where Voldemort has hidden him. I can break down the wards. I can send in hundreds of Aurors. I can put Devlin in the middle of a war zone - if that is the only way you will let me have him back.” 

The Death Eater sunk further, his body trembling. Harry should stop, but he didn’t, because when he got like this - so _angry, furious, wanting, needing, demanding -_ it was almost impossible to stop. 

“It is the choices we make that define us and I will always choose the route that spills the least blood - but if you will not _give_ me that choice...” He withdrew his wand. Sirius flinched a bit, but Alexandra was stiff and unreactive. She wanted Devlin back. 

“It is not so easy,” the Death Eater began, eying Harry’s wand with fear. “Voldemort watches where the boy goes. No one is trusted completely with the child.” 

“You are his guard.” 

“I have taken him out of the camp three times in four years,” he said raggedly. “All were arranged by Voldemort...” 

“So do so again.” 

“I...where would I bring him? Voldemort can track the boy. He will kill me.” 

Harry didn’t particularly care about the Death Eater’s life, but if Voldemort killed this man it would because he would know _Harry knew_ and then it would be near impossible to get to Devlin. 

“I will set up a safe house. You will go to there with Devlin.”  

The Death Eater shook, but nodded. Harry stood up, leaned over the back of the Death Eater’s chair, and undid his cuffs. Harry still had his wand. 

“Tell me everything I need to know,” he said. 

The Death Eater stared at him for a long moment - his amber eyes narrowed, his brow crumbled, and his lips pressed into a tight line. Harry felt his heart pitter patter as doubt rooted itself into his anger, breaking it apart as if it were soft rock. Then the Death Eater opened his mouth and Harry couldn’t help the heady sense that overcame him. He hadn’t been entirely sure he _could_ have gotten the information from the man with force. 

“The child can be disapperated,” he said slowly, his tone deliberate.  Harry took in a breath, almost in disbelief. “He could not, until recently. The Dark Lord, in planning for an attack on the camp, realized that Devlin would be stranded if the Dark Lord were not there...” 

“But he _isn’t_ moved, correct?” 

The Death Eater turned his gaze to Sirius, intent and critical. 

“That is,” Sirius began, swallowing away a bit more of his green hue. “Even Devlin would know what you were doing.” 

Harry felt his insides tighten and twist the longer the Death Eater stayed silent. He was thinking of what to say - considering revealing something and it drove Harry almost mad not to know. 

“He isn’t an innocent boy,” the Death Eater began and Harry wanted to pummel him, because he honestly didn’t feel like he had to hear that _ever again!_ The man had already told him, more than once, what Devlin was not. “He won’t try to escape. The Dark Lord knows he has control over the child.” 

Harry felt that anger boil in his gut again and even though he _knew_ his face hadn’t betrayed him, the Death Eater flinched as if he had simply _felt_ Harry’s anger. Alexandra was calm and cool with an air of disgust directed at the Death Eater - but Harry knew Alex and he knew she was trying not to break down. Sirius frowned. 

“I brought him to Diagon Alley three months ago,” the Death Eater finally whispered, his hands gripping his thighs. “The Dark Lord allowed him. It was a test, he told me privately.” 

Harry felt all the air in his chest leave him. Devlin had been in Diagon Alley. Where Harry often took his lunch break. Where he went shopping with Emma. Where his friends and colleagues and- Devlin had been accessible, and Harry hadn’t _found_ him. It as illogical, but Harry wasn’t thinking logically right now. 

“And...would he allow Devlin again?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Take a guess,” Alexandra said harshly, stepping closer to the man. Her eyes were narrowed and her magic was swirling all around her. 

“Devlin usually gets his way if he tries hard enough,” the Death Eater finally murmured. “But convincing Devlin he wants something is tricky.” 

“It would be safest for you, if you were able to conceal the kidnapping with an already expected trip,” Sirius said softly, oddly focused. 

“Yes, I am completely aware of the advantage,” the Death Eater said, exasperated. “But that is easier said than done.” 

“It is really besides the point as well,” Harry said firmly, “the important fact is that you will move the boy - to a safe house - and then you will remain there, until I come.”

“How will I get to this safe house?” 

“I will implant it into your mind.” 

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Geoffrey disapperated back to the camp. It was dark already, but the Death Eater’s doing patrol saw him immediately. Their momentary surprise and cheer gave way quickly to suspicion. _Where were you? Gunning already told us you stood in for him, but no one else returned. What happened? Were you captured?_

Geoffrey feigned a head injury, which, the more he thought about it, was probably fairly truthful. He told them he had seen the Auror’s, been hit by a spell, and then disapperated to safety where he had waited. They looked at him oddly, of course, but he was above their ranking, so they let him be. They would tell Voldemort tomorrow, he was certain - he had seen the gleam of uncertainty in their eyes. 

“The boy was looking for you,” another of them said, half dismissively. The boy wasn’t their problem. Geoffrey nodded politely, said he was on his way to the Healer’s and walked off. 

He didn’t go the Healer’s, of course. He went to his tent, intending to sit upon his bed for a moment and simply _think._ The other werewolves looked up for a minute as he entered the shared living space, but it was dark, and they were tired. One of them, a young man perhaps twenty at the most, stopped Geoffrey and whispered: _‘He’s asleep on your bed’._

And so he was, mop of dark hair twisted into his eyes, one hand snuck under Geoffrey’s pillow, the other under his chin. He looked such a child, asleep. 

He wondered if he remembered either of his parents beyond vague sensations. He wondered - if Devlin remembered them - did he blame them? Did he blame them equally? Or did Potter, the hero, the Auror, the one Voldemort hated most, bear more blame in the child’s opinion. Mostly, he wondered, and worried, what Potter would think of the child. 

 The Dark Lord would return in the morning.  If he had been there, Geoffrey was almost certain the boy would have told Voldemort Geoffrey was missing. If Potter had known he was away, he would have stormed the camp that very night, Geoffrey was sure. 

“Dubhán?” 

His eyes fluttered. His hands flexed. His hair fell further onto his face. 

“Dubhán?” 

His eyes snapped open, wide and awake and observant. They found Geoffrey’s face and a bit of that alertness slipped away at finding the familiar and the safe. 

“Geoffrey.” 

“Let’s get you back to bed, alright?” 

The boy nodded and Geoffrey lifted him. His hair tickled the nape of Geoffrey’s neck as the boy put his head down again. A little fist was curled around the front of his robes, the other slung over Geoffrey’s shoulder. 

“I couldn’t find you,” the boy whispered softly, half asleep. 

“I know. I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Geoffrey said, nuzzling the boy. The cool air whipped at Geoffrey’s face the moment they exited the tent. It felt good against his hot skin, cooling down his worry. It made it just a bit easier to think straight. 

 _Tomorrow it will be too late,_ his mind whispered in a moment of clarity. _Voldemort will know. You will be dead._

Devlin clung tighter. The Death Eater’s on patrol watched him as he carried the boy through the camp. One misstep and they would kill him, Geoffrey knew. There was no escape - hadn’t Potter been able to understand that? Voldemort protected what was his. Devlin was _Voldemort’s_. 

“I’m tired,” the boy mumbled. Geoffrey wrapped his arms around the boy, holding him close. Voldemort would know and Geoffrey would be dead and the boy would be without anyone to protect him from Voldemort. 

“I’m bringing you to your bed,” he said, speaking through a haze. The child nodded against his shoulder. The Death Eater guarding Voldemort’s private quarters regarded him carefully. They already knew. All of them knew. All of them knew to be suspicious. _But you are above them_. Until Voldemort came back, they would leave him be. The boy was his protection - Devlin was to be feared. Upsetting Devlin was to be feared. 

“Password please,” Geoffrey whispered to the boy, who turned in his arms and whispered it to the guard. He gave a curt nod and allowed them entrance. 

Geoffrey felt drained. Now that there were no eyes to preform in front of except Devlin’s he felt as though he could simply will himself to stop existing. Wouldn’t it be better? He knew Voldemort would ensure his death was anything but peaceful. 

“Geoffrey?” He was still holding the boy, mere steps past the front door. The boys eyes looked at him, so perceptive and uncanny in their intensity. “Is something bothering you?”

He wouldn’t have asked it, except that they were alone. It was only when they were alone that Devlin dared to ask such caring questions. 

 _Alone_. 

_Just the boy._

_In his arms..._

“Close your eyes Dubhán, it is far to late for you to be awake. I will tell you in the morning.” The child nodded and Geoffrey took a step, to keep the boy calm. He fiddled with his hand, withdrawing his wand with measured care. He whispered a sleeping spell and then - he disappeared. 

There were no eyes to see him, not even the boys. 

OoOoOoOo

“Goodnight Emma,” Harry whispered softly when he came home late that night. She was already asleep, but that wasn’t unusual - Harry often kept late work hours. Molly Weasley was downstairs, speaking with Alexandra. She had said Emma had gone to sleep just fine, but Harry had to check. He always had to check. 

Sometimes when he saw her so safe and relaxed he couldn’t help but think of that horrible night when the house had been perfectly hushed and Emma had fallen asleep looking just as peaceful. He shook his head, trying to dispel the image of her little face screaming and her hands clinging so desperately to Alex’s neck as he made Alex take her away. 

Harry placed a kiss on her forehead and then withdrew from the room. She was safe, just like every night since _that_ night. Without really thinking, Harry walked down the hallway and opened a different door. 

Inside was a room painted in blues and greens. On the walls were flying brooms and cartoon creatures. Stuffed animals stare at Harry from the bed. He sat on the bed, feeling reality bearing down on him once more. 

A stuffed wolf fell from atop it’s precarious pile at Harry’s disruptive weight. He picked it up. Remus had given it to Devlin on his sixth birthday. Mere months before _it_ happened. He held the animal close to him. It had long ago stopped smelling like Devlin - just like everything else - and Harry almost cried at the thought that soon this bed would be disheveled and these toys a mess. He didn’t think he would ever have the heart to tell Devlin to clean up again, because the mess would always be a reminder that he was _there._

 _He’s not six anymore_ , Harry’s mind whispered, without his permission. Would Devlin play with stuffed animals still? Was he too old for racing brooms on his walls? What about that teddy bear over there - he’d had it since he was tiny. Or those dragon toys, left where he had lined them up on his desk? 

What would he like now? 

The patter-patter of light-footed feet made him look up. Zee was sitting at the door, wagging his tail. 

“Hi, boy,” he said, his voice raspy and hoarse despite the fact that he has held the tears at bay. The dog tilted his head and whimpered softy. The dog wandered over and climbed quietly onto the bed next to Harry. He was five now and he had just started moving with a semi-regard for where he was in space. 

Alexandra had jokingly told him just this morning that she thought he had finally stopped being a toddler and perhaps now he _would know where his feet were_. Just this morning Harry had patted the dogs head and said, ‘you know perfectly where every bit of you is, Zee - right where you want it: in everyones business.’ The dog had licked him and then gone back to following Alexandra around the kitchen as she made eggs, hopeful she would be dropping some. 

"He's going to come home soon," Harry whispered to the dog, patting its head. "But you can't be upset if he doesn't remember you at first or pretends not to like you, okay boy?" The dog’s head tilted again. After a while Harry got up to go to bed, but no matter how much he called Zee, the dog wouldn’t move.

"I know, you miss him too. You can sleep here." And Harry did something he had not done in years – he left Devlin's door open, because for once in four years, it didn’t seem like such a shrine anymore. Its owner would be coming back.

_OoOoOoOoOoOoO_

Geoffrey’s nerves were flayed and raw and _burning_ and the size of the ‘safe house’ simply exacerbated the situation by making him feel as if he had walked into a trap, been locked away in a prison cell, been buried alive, been-

 _The boy stirred_ , laid out on the only bed in the _room_ (but no, it wasn’t a room, because it had a kitchen and a bathroom...). There wasn’t enough space to pace and Geoffrey had already turned over every _thing_ in the whole place trying to find some magical button to inform Potter that they were _here_ and _waiting_ and by Merlin _Geoffrey wanted Potter to explain this to the boy!_

It had only been an hour. Perhaps Potter already knew. Perhaps he was rounding up his men, so that he could take Devlin and then kill Geoffrey. _It will be quick,_ Geoffrey thought with some calmness. He was certain it would be better than the death awaiting him from Voldemort. 

The boy stirred. 

Geoffrey’s wand twitched and the boy fell still again. 

Truth be told, Geoffrey was more than a little afraid of the child when he wielded his wand. He had tried to take the wand from the boy, but Geoffrey had the burn on his hand still to prove _that_ wasn’t going to happen, even while he was asleep. 

He settled into the only chair and watched the boy - ready to spell him asleep the next time he stirred. He had given up on notifying Potter - if Potter didn’t come for them it would be his fault that they were both dead. 

OoOoOoO

 _Death Eaters,_ his watch read as it continued to scream at him. Harry got dressed in the haze that was often his midnights. He swung his cloak over himself and finally managed to remember the spell to _shut the stupid thing up_. Alexandra was sitting up in bed, watching him. 

“Be safe, Harry,” she said softly as he leaned over to kiss her - still in that disjoined haze in which all he could do was follow the routine. He nodded, kissed her again, and swept out of the room. 

By the time he arrived on the scene (a small muggle village in the middle of nowhere), his men had subdued the Death Eater’s already. They gave him weary looks as he approached the lined-up men and removed their masks - possibly afraid he would run off with one of the captives again. 

“We can do this,” one of his men said, Jake, if he recalled - he didn’t often work with this crew. 

“Are you worried about something?” Harry said with all the bemusement that a boss should when their underling was being foolish. 

“Uh, no sir. It’s just - it wasn’t something they needed to bother you with, sir. Honestly they’ve all been a bit...easy tonight.” 

“What do you mean?

“They fought, sir...just once we had them, they haven’t been their usual selves. Almost like they’d _rather_ be captured,” the man said, eying the line of them. 

“Interesting,” he said, but he wasn’t really. He pushed past the man and counted up the wands, making sure they had every one of them. As he passed a Death Eater he noticed his eyes flash amber. He was a young man, perhaps already in his twenties, possibly not quite. Harry paused for a moment and flashed the Death Eater a smile. 

“It must be so impossibly annoying, not being able to mangle me to pieces,” he said, trying to keep his voice charming. His team turned and frowned, clearly intrigued. The Death Eater actually laughed. 

“You ‘ave no idea,” he said, grinning toothishly, his eyes glinting. Harry moved forward and then he motioned to his men and they began to round them up and disapperate with them. 

Hours later, with all the paper work filled out, Harry made his way home _again._ Alexandra was sipping tea in the kitchen and he went to join her - except he poured something stronger. The bite of the rum hit the spot and he fell into a chair beside his wife, wishing things were different in his world. 

“Everything as normal?” She asked, between sips. Harry nodded numbly, beyond tired. “Think you can sleep?” 

Which meant she was well beyond tired, too. 

“No, but I’d be more than happy to just hold you while one of us gets to sleep.” She nodded - far too used to his routines to fight him. Acceptance - sometimes it pinned Harry’s heart as if he were still a small boy, desperate for someone to just accept him, no matter that he never did anything right. 

“Sounds lovely,” she said and they climbed the stairs together. 

He held her until she was a breath away from sleep. 

“I miss him so much, Harry,” she said softly. It wasn’t an unusual comment and normally it would have sent Harry as far from sleep as the moon was from earth, but today it just made him hold her closer. 

“He’ll be home soon,” he said softly into her ear, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear and kissing her cheek. She nodded against the pillow and fell into slumber. 

Harry lay awake on his back for a long moment. He went to rub at his eyes when he noticed that he still had his watch on. It was still silenced from when he had made it shut up. 

 _Devlin_ , it said in small letters and Harry’s heart slammed into his ribs as he scrambled on the bed. Alexandra was awake in a heartbeat. 

“Again?” She asked, fear leaking into her voice. “Harry?” 

“Devlin,” he said instead, forcing the words past his tightening lungs. “My watch - I silenced it and I didn’t hear the alarm. Devlin...” 

“Oh Merlin,” she said, fretting. She was getting dressed too. 

“Alex, call Molly and see if she can floo over. When you have someone for Emma, come to the safe house, alright?” 

She nodded, slowing down. Harry knew she had almost forgotten in her haste. 

“I’ll call Sirius,” she said and Harry nodded. Sirius would come over in whatever state she had woken him. Once in his haste - when there had been an attack on Ron’s house - he had come over in just his boxers. When Alexandra had later teased him he had smiled charmingly - now dressed in a set of Harry’s clothes - and said ‘yes well...I was sort of busy...you’re lucky I took the time to put _this_ on.’

Harry disappeared, dressed in his undershirt and jeans.


End file.
